


Finding Ground

by belief_in_night (injured_eternity)



Category: CSI: NY
Genre: F/M, Pre-show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-26
Updated: 2006-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:30:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/injured_eternity/pseuds/belief_in_night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>September 11th... The Towers fell... “You will find your ground, Mac.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Ground

“NO!!”

Stella Bonasera swung around at the cry that echoed through the nearly empty headquarters before launching herself from the small lab she was working in. Only she and Mac were actually in the lab that morning: everyone else was out with another case, and even the lab techs were absent from this wing. That left only one other person who could have called out.

She skidded to a stop in the doorway of the break room, stunned at finding Mac on his feet, hands against the table, a horrified, disbelieving look in his eyes.

“Mac?”

He didn’t even appear to hear her; she was about to go to him when she saw the column of smoke and flame rising to the sky in the west. “Oh my God,” she whispered, her gaze swinging to the television screen, her mind finally hearing the reporter’s words: “The north tower has been struck by…”

Staring in horrified shock at the screen, the words swept around her; her mind struggled to convince itself that she was wrapped in some surreal dream. Movement beside her startled her enough to remind her body how to move again, and she grabbed Mac’s shoulder.

“Where are you going?!”

Haunted, terrified blue eyes met hers, but he let no tears fall. “Claire… She’s in there.”

( _Finding Ground_ )

Somehow, he had gotten out of the lab—they both had, though neither was quite sure how. And somewhere in the midst of the ensuing chaos, they had found Claire… but finding her was worse than not knowing. She’d been crushed under the weight of a falling beam, though her face remained unscarred—she looked almost peacefully asleep, if one could ignore the unnatural twist to the lower part of her body that remained visible.

Mac turned paler than snow at seeing her on the gurney, right as the medics had been about to zip up the body bag. He’d given his ID for her right there, staring in desperation at the woman he had given his heart to. As his gaze turned to the smoldering towers, debris still falling, he heard their conversation in his mind again, their words twisting his heart, but he let no tears fall.

 _“I’ve been transferred, Mac,” she explained to him over dinner one night, bubbly with happiness; the Towers had been a part of her childhood dreams, and here was her opportunity to live in that dream._

 _His head snapped up. “You accepted a post in the Towers? What in God’s name are you thinking, Claire?”_

 _Hurt replaced the happiness in her eyes. “Why not? Come on, love—I thought you’d be happy for me.”_

 _A shake of his head. “I’m sorry. I… It doesn’t feel right, Claire. I don’t know why; something just feels wrong.”_

 _Fire overthrew the hurt, volleying its place from their argument two weeks ago. “You’re never home, anyway,” she pointed out sharply. “I suppose it works out just perfectly.” And she left the table._

“Detective?”

The voice snapped him back to the present, and he sent a nod in the medic’s direction. “Yes. Thank you.”

His mind was completely numb, barely registering Stella at his side, drawing him back, out of the way of the workers. There was nothing either of them could do, unprepared as they were, but he couldn’t leave, couldn’t leave the place that had taken his Claire’s life. His feelings had been right… If only they had not been so stubborn, so irrational in their rash conversation…

( _Finding Ground_ )

September fifteenth. The day after Claire Taylor’s funeral. Mac Taylor was back at CSI.

Coming out of the DNA lab, Stella stopped short at seeing Mac walking towards her. “Mac,” she stated in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Working. What else?”

Her eyes narrowed immediately at his tone—flat and emotionless behind the note of life that had clearly been forced into it with a crowbar. His features were drawn and tight, dark shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes, lines around his eyes and mouth that told of lack of sleep and misery.

“Isn’t he on leave?” Don Flack stepped up beside her, watching him walk down the hall to his office.

“Yeah,” she answered after a moment. “I thought so, too.”

( _Finding Ground_ )

That evening, Stella was about to leave the lab after a later night than usual when she saw the light on in Mac’s office. A few moments’ debate and she made her way down the hall to knock on his door.

“Mac?” He looked up. “It’s after ten—what are you doing here so late?

A guarded look entered his eyes, dull and lifeless, with no hint of their usual spark. “Working. I need to finish up this paperwork. I’m behind.”

His words stabbed her through the heart, his silenced misery piercing her to the core. “No one expects you to finish everything on your first day back; come on—let me take you home.”

“I can’t. This much in three days—I can’t just leave it here. The captain’s asking for reports and—“

“Mac: you… are… not… expected… to… finish…” she declared in exasperation, forcing her words out slowly. “With you out, that would be _my_ job. Please, Mac—go home and get some sleep.”

“I won’t leave this with you, Stella; you have enough things to do since I’ve been gone. I’ll get through this and leave in a bit. Good night, Stella. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The dismissal was clear, and she couldn’t help but feel the sting. But as much she wanted to, she did not dare push him, for fear of pushing too far. “Good night, Mac,” she answered softly.

The door shut behind her, and Mac was left staring after her as though tracking her through the closed door, twisting his wedding band unconsciously on his finger. But he let no tears fall.

( _Finding Ground_ )

September twenty-second. Almost two weeks since the disaster at the Twin Towers. Almost two weeks since Mac had lost his heart. Almost two weeks since he had given up on sleeping. Almost two weeks since he had drowned himself in work. Almost two weeks, and Stella Bonasera grew more and more worried. Almost two weeks, and she was certain that he was too close to his breaking point.

That evening, shifts had cleared; headquarters were quiet, save for the soft humming from various pieces of machinery. Stella sat in front of one of the large viewing screens, tapping away at the keyboard as she tried to find the missing link in the most recent case. No luck. Once more, the system sent her its none-too-apologetic beep of unrepentant failure, and she muttered an oath under her breath as she gave up on futility, deciding to put it on hold until tomorrow.

A glance spared towards the door told her that the lights in Mac’s office were off, for once, and she felt the faintest glimmer of hope—had he actually left the lab early for once? Switching off the machines, she sighed and headed back up to the locker room to retrieve her things.

Standing towards the back of that very room, Mac himself stood in front of his open locker, picking up spare change and planning to take a second look at a warrant they had gotten not two days past, desperately searching for anything that could be used as a reason to keep him in the office for just a little longer. But as he moved a bottle of water aside to pick his badge back up, his hand and his heart froze in tandem over a framed photo of… Claire.

Almost of its own volition, his hand moved to pick up the photo; she was laughing, her long, golden hair spilling down her back in soft waves. He remembered taking it clearly—about a week before she died. They’d been at lunch in Battery Park; she been laughing at something he’d said. Even knowing it was against regulations, he had pulled the camera from the back of the car and snapped her picture without her ever knowing it.

His breath caught in his throat, his eyes filling, as he stared down at the photograph he held without even seeing it. His mind remembered her clear laughter; he could hear it just by seeing her in his mind’s eye. He could see the twinkle in her green eyes, the spark when she was truly amused, the way she would unconsciously toss her hair back. A single tear struck the glass and he frowned, almost confused, wondering where on earth it had come from. Another followed it, and then another, and he finally realized that the drops were tears… _His_.

The locker room door swung open silently, its hinges oiled for once, and Stella stepped in, turned a corner, and stopped dead in her tracks, her heart breaking at the defeat that screamed from every line in Mac’s body—the slumped shoulders, the bowed head, the one hand hanging at his side even as the other held something up for him to see.

So focused was he upon that object that he never even heard her come up to him until her hand touched his shoulder. “Mac.”

He looked up slowly, eyes clouded with pain and longing and despair. Pained, his gaze turned back to the object in his hand; hers followed, and she choked back a cry.

“Oh, Mac,” she whispered, now understanding what had finally broken him. She reached for the frame, planning to at least put it back on the shelf to free his hand, but his grip tightened.

“No.” He pulled back, striking his elbow on the metal door, and the photo dropped as his hand reflexively loosened its grasp on the frame; glass shattered as it struck the tiled floor, shattering like his tenuous grip on control. “NO!!” Louder now, somewhere between a scream and a roar. He was on his knees, reaching for the frame, heedless of the shards of glass that slashed across his palm.

“Mac!” Stella was begging now, dropping to the bench in front of him, tears of pain cascading down her own cheeks as she cried the tears that he refused to release. She gripped his shoulder with one hand and his cheek with the other, making him look at her. “Mac, please!”

The gaze that turned upon her held an unparalleled myriad of emotions, grief, despair, misery, anger, and helplessness all fighting for precedence. “Stella…” The voice that called her name was not the Mac she knew… It held none of _him_ , none of the essence that made him Mac. “She’s gone, Stella, and I couldn’t…” His voice broke, and more tears with it. “I couldn’t save her; I was too late!”

“No, Mac,” she whispered, fighting to keep his gaze trained on her as her guesses were confirmed. “No… You did all you could; even if you had been right next to her, it wouldn’t have made any difference,” she declared viciously. “I don’t know _why_ she’s gone, Mac; it doesn’t make sense to me, either, but _please_ : don’t throw your life away because she is! She would want you to _live_ , Mac! She knows you didn’t leave her there alone; she knows you did all you could, but what could _anyone_ have done?

“Read my lips, Mac: it is _NOT_ your fault!” Emerald eyes bore into his, desperately trying to make him believe her words.

“I couldn’t stop her,” he whispered. “I… We fought over that job when she got it… She told me I worked too hard to care… That I wouldn’t notice if she didn’t come home…” Tormented blue eyes rose to meet hers as he spoke the words of the argument that had haunted him since the Towers fell. “I _would_ have noticed, Stella… And she won’t ever know…”

She shook her head, her heart breaking as she finally understood why he had struggled so in the past weeks, fighting with his own guilt and the words that plagued a heart that had already taken more battering than it could handle. “I know you would have, Mac,” she told him gently. “So did she; we all say things that should never _be_ said when we’re angry. It doesn’t change what you had together.”

Stella drew him closer to her, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into her embrace, struggling to offer him comfort where words could not. His shoulders shook with suppressed sobs that he had held back since she died; she pulled him to her and refused to let him go, refused to let him retreat into his own personal hell alone again.

“You will find your ground, Mac,” she whispered to him, rubbing his back gently. “The blame doesn’t go to you; you _will_ believe that someday. Because no matter what, you loved her, and she you.”

The briefest pause, and then his arms came around her, caving into her embrace and the promise of respite that lay in her offer of comfort. And, as he buried his face in her shoulder, Mac Taylor finally allowed the tears to fall.

  
 _Finis._

 _Feedback is always appreciated._


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